A trend I’ve taken note of with the slow rise of the much needed exposure of queer Africans, has been our, and I say our as I myself am no stranger to this tactic, penchant for living out loud, but away from our respective communities’ gazes. Now, understand me when I say this, there is nothing inherently malicious with this practice of ‘pulling the curtains closed’ in terms of expressing our sexualities within our communities. It is in fact, in all intents and purposes, a survival tactic. But at what cost?
I included myself in the equation above as I have, and do still at times, find myself ‘downplaying’ or all around foregoing mentioning my sexuality when engrossed within my community; be they with family members or at a social gathering. And what started off as a means of suppressing my identity had later morphed into simply maintaining the status quo, and thus my sanity. As would be the case for many other queer Africans. This could include artfully fending off questions from aunts of when my marriage to an attractive man would take place, or bashfully declining invitations to meet with the sons of aunts thrice removed. Again, while it was and is a means of ‘peacefully’ navigating the African social stratosphere, I fear it has come at a greater cost than I initially imagined. Mainly, my integrity.
Throughout this journey of self-discovery and more importantly, acceptance, I fear many of us have struggled with the idea of combining our two worlds, and found ourselves at an impasse. Meaning, the two had to live as separate entities, that our lived experiences, my experiences, each had their time and place. I can recall back to an experience with a former girlfriend where these worlds met. She and I were walking hand in hand in a neighborhood familiar to me, and spotted an aunt, who in turn recognized and stopped me. My recollection of the events leading up to this are combined with having felt a sense of both duty and obligation, as I snatched my hand away from hers, and instead focused on the expected familiarities with my aunt. All the while, my girlfriend at the time stood in silence, casted off to side with the same effort as that of a serviette sale. When all was said and done, that same sense of duty that prompted my carelessness in the first place, was replaced with regret, discomfort, and shame. I had sold myself out, but this time, at the expense of someone I cared for.
I’ve said that, to say this: Our sense of duty to our communities will be the catalyst for our leading unfulfilled lives. While duality and complex layers are an intrinsic part to the human experience, to deny ourselves a life where all parts of our existences are validated and respected, is a disservice to ourselves. We must break away from this ingrained belief that equates queerness to ‘home affairs not being talked about on the public square’; to something to be ashamed of. We must break away from the this belief that queerness is unAfrican.
What this all means? It means reclaiming our heritage, reclaiming our place in African society. It means reclaiming our self-worth. As a Guinean and Ivorian-American, I realize the privilege I, and other first-generation continental Americans, hold over our indigenous queer continentals as we do not face imminent persecution for living as an out lesbian or queer individual. However, I feel it even more so imperative for us and indigenous continentals to take down this curtain of us living double-lives. And while it may take decades, even centuries, to undo the works of homophobic western colonialist ideals embedded in Africa and ourselves, it is our duty to ensure that queer Africans at home and abroad are given the freedom to lead fulfilled lives, free from stigma and persecution.
So I challenge you to take those steps to reclaiming your existence, reclaiming that of others, and reclaiming our culture. I challenge us to take down the curtain.
“Cross the river in a crowd and the crocodile won’t eat you.” ~ African proverb